


This Is All I'm Asking For

by samyazaz



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Bondage, Aftercare, Blow Jobs, Christmas, Christmas Party, First Time, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-15 10:29:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13029132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samyazaz/pseuds/samyazaz
Summary: Enjolras has been driving him slowly mad all night.It started as soon as Grantaire entered his flat, the party already in full swing because he's missed being the fashionable sort of late by at least half an hour. Musichetta runs up to kiss his cheek and drag him in from the cold, and Joly is on her other side telling him about something hilarious he missed, and Grantaire hears neither of them because Enjolras is across the flat ladling punch into a plastic cup for Cosette and he is wearing the most ridiculously hideous Christmas sweater that Grantaire has ever seen.





	This Is All I'm Asking For

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlackandBlueMagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandBlueMagpie/gifts).



> Written for BlackandBlueMagpie for the Les Mis Winter Holidays Exchange. Thank you for the wonderful prompts! I had such a blast writing this for you. <3

Enjolras has been driving him slowly mad all night.

It started as soon as Grantaire entered his flat, the party already in full swing because he's missed being the fashionable sort of late by at least half an hour. Musichetta runs up to kiss his cheek and drag him in from the cold, and Joly is on her other side telling him about something hilarious he missed, and Grantaire hears neither of them because Enjolras is across the flat ladling punch into a plastic cup for Cosette and he is wearing the most ridiculously hideous Christmas sweater that Grantaire has ever seen.

It's not even a sweater, it's a _cardigan_ , with buttons shaped like lumpy Christmas trees marching up the middle, embroidered reindeer across his chest, and even little LED Christmas lights that blink on and off at the flick of a button, all wrapped up in garish shades of red, green, and silver that make Grantaire's artist heart want to cry. He looks like someone's overly-festive, fashionably-blind grandpa, but he's _Enjolras_ , so he also looks more than a little bit like a fierce, vengeful angel, if you can get past the lights and the eye-watering color palette.

Grantaire, of course, hasn't been able to look away since he walked through the door.

And it hasn't escaped his notice that, when someone pulls Grantaire's attention away and it gravitates back, at least half the time he's caught Enjolras watching him, or Enjolras's gaze just sliding away, like he's trying not to be caught staring. And that's driving Grantaire mad, too, like a tiny grain of sand stuck in a shoe, niggling at the back of his mind even when he's embroiled in a debate with Combeferre and Joly about whether tinsel is festive fun or the devil's garland. Grantaire has very strong opinions on that, but even in the middle of opining there's a small fraction of his brain that's wondering if Enjolras is watching him now too, and why he has been all night, and whether he's somehow managed to do something wrong without even realizing it, and if they're about to ruin all their friends' fun by having a fight in the middle of the party.

It wasn't all that long ago that Grantaire would have proactively picked a fight that he thought was coming, because at least then it wouldn't take him by surprise, at least then he'd get to pick how and when and why the people ( _person_ ) he cares about decide he's a jerk. But tonight... it's the holidays, and he's surrounded by the warmth of his friends and the gentle music of laughter and conversation, and he doesn't want to ruin that. He doesn't want to argue.

Not that long ago, the prospect of a fight would have him riling, bristling, readying for it. Tonight, all it does is make him feel tired, and a little sad. So he switches from the punch to the sparkling cider that's on offer, and when he feels himself about to tip over the edge into a rant about the commercialization of the holidays, he drags himself away from the conversation and spends half an hour gushing over Courfeyrac's pictures of his new kitten, instead. He tries, he _tries_ to be unobjectionable, to keep himself from giving Enjolras ammunition he can hurl back at him, to not ruin the party for all these people that he loves, and who deserve to have a good time.

By some miracle, the night wears on and the party starts to wind down and people begin to say their good-byes, and Grantaire hasn't provoked a single sharp word from Enjolras. The party's been a rousing success and Grantaire hasn't ruined it for anyone, and he feels flush with gladness at the same time that he feels exhausted by the effort of keeping himself in check. So when Cosette nearly manages to miss saying good-bye to him because he ducked into the kitchen to rinse out the cider bottles before chucking them in the recycle -- because he knows that's a pet peeve of Enjolras's, and it's sparked more than one fight between them in the past, and he's _still trying_ , dammit -- he throws himself onto the couch in a show of despair.

Cosette comes over to give him the nearly-missed hug, and presses a kiss to his cheek as well, and he turns the despair into a swoon, with one arm thrown across his face, so that she leaves giggling. And then he stays like that for a few moments, listening to the quiet descending across the flat, taking just a minute to enjoy the softness of Enjolras's couch and the darkness of his arm across his eyes, just a few minutes to indulge the exhaustion and take a respite.

He doesn't sleep, doesn't even doze, not really, just drifts a little. He means to get up, and thinks to himself that he ought to, but the couch is so comfortable and he's so tired and so glad of his success that with each minute, he convinces himself that he can indulge for just one more.

It's the sound of Enjolras moving around that rouses him, pushing up onto his elbows at first and then upright fully, and then just watches for a moment as Enjolras stomps across his living room with a garbage bag in hand and starts gathering up plastic cups and discarded paper napkins. He spares a glance for Grantaire as he comes near the couch to pick up a bit of wrapping paper that had found its way to the floor, and his mouth thins at the edges before he wads the paper up and drops it into the bag with everything else. "If you need to crash on the couch, just give me a moment to find a sheet for you, please."

Grantaire frowns. "Hey," he says, gently chastising, as Enjolras starts gathering up a small collection of paper plates that had been left on the coffee table. "Hey, don't."

Enjolras's shoulders square, and a muscle in his jaw jumps. "I can drive you home if you feel that strongly about the couch, but you're not getting on the road tonight, R."

" _Enjolras_ ," Grantaire protests, and manages to get off the chair and across the room to fish an empty beer bottle out from underneath the kitchen table before Enjolras can. "Stop that."

"It needs to be done," Enjolras snaps, but abandons the trash bag when Grantaire grabs for it and moves away instead to begin pulling down the multi-colored Christmas lights that have been strung around the ceiling of his flat. "And you had a drink in your hand all night, you are not driving. I'll fight you for your keys if I have to."

That's enough of a mental image to give Grantaire pause for just a moment, but it's long enough that Enjolras has half of the strings in the living room pulled down by the time he recovers himself. "I'm not drunk. And you're _not cleaning_. I told you weeks ago that I'd handle the clean-up, since you were hosting."

Enjolras's back is to Grantaire as he gathers the strands of lights up in his arms, but Grantaire doesn't miss the way his back goes tense beneath his horrible cardigan, or how his shoulders stiffen up. "You told me," he says, each word coming with staccato sharpness. " _Weeks ago_ ," and he says it like it means something, like it's important.

Grantaire stares at Enjolras's back. Most of it is taken up by a knit motif of the star of Bethlehem shining over a lime green forest. He can feel the weight of the argument that they've avoided all night suddenly bearing down on them, as inevitable and inescapable as a runaway train. "You thought I forgot," he says without inflection.

"You fell asleep on my couch," Enjolras says, and starts gathering another string of lights into his arms.

"I wasn't _asleep_ , I was--"

"Grantaire." Enjolras's voice is abruptly pained, and painful. "It's-- Look, it's fine." He frees one hand to bring it up and rub the back of his wrist across his brow, though it makes half of the lights cascade out of his arms to puddle messily on the floor. "I've been figuring I'd be cleaning up tonight anyway. It's not--" He lets out his breath, slower and more controlled than Grantaire is expecting. "It's fine. I want you to be safe."

There's a sharp-edged lump of stone in Grantaire's throat. He swallows against it, even though he knows it's going to cut him. "You never thought I meant it." Ordinarily, they'd both be halfway to screaming by now. But Enjolras's voice is gentle where Grantaire would normally expect it to be snapping with temper and irritation, and Grantaire's comes out soft, more sad than accusing. "You thought I was just going to bail on you and my responsibilities--"

"Grantaire." Enjolras shuts his eyes and breathes his name out, like somehow despite the fact that they're talking almost-civilly, the conversation still hurts him. He says Grantaire's name like it's a plea, like what he's really saying is _please don't_. And they must be in the throes of a Christmas miracle, because Grantaire sees his opportunity, sees the places in the conversation where he could catch and pull and wrench it onto more familiar footing and away from this strange new dynamic where Enjolras is somehow both disappointed by Grantaire and understanding of it. It would be so easy, a few sharp words aimed with precision and they'd be back to screaming at each other like normal.

But Grantaire sees the opportunity...and he lets it pass. He holds his tongue and his temper, and he reaches instead for Enjolras, who's grabbing at the lights that spilled around his feet and gathering it all back up into his arms in a messy jumble that he's going to hate himself for next year. "Let me help. I meant what I said. You shouldn't have to--" Enjolras still has his hands buried in the lights, struggling to hold onto them all and keep them in his arms, and he's not listening. Grantaire plunges his hands into the tangle and grabs handfuls of the wires, gives a sharp twist so the lines pull tight and Enjolras's hands are caught and stilled and he has to _listen_. "Enjolras, stop. For one minute, just _stop_."

And Enjolras stops.

For a moment they're both of them still and silent. Grantaire's lungs heave like he's been running, or like they've been screaming at each other, though there's no reason for it. And Enjolras's hands twitch against his grip, more of a token protest than a true attempt to free himself, and his breath hitches and quickens. It seems a bit of a belated reaction to Grantaire, but who is he to judge?

And there's more important things to address than how Enjolras is reacting like they're fighting just as soon as they've both gone silent. Grantaire keeps his voice low and insistent, and says, "I haven't had anything but the cider for the past two hours. I'm not drunk, just tired. I just needed a minute to recover before jumping from party to clean-up. I'm going to do this."

Enjolras's gaze is angled down, away from Grantaire, which is also out of character. And it's disarming how it means that Grantaire can't see his eyes, or even much of his face, and can't read his expression at all. "Ah," Enjolras says, still softer than he usually bothers being. "I thought—" He clears his throat and shifts, but still doesn't meet Grantaire's eyes. "I shouldn't have. I owe you an apology."

Grantaire swears beneath his breath. "Christ. That's not what I want from you. You don't have to apologize, I just— Just let me do this for you."

Enjolras makes a sound that Grantaire has never heard from him before, half breathy laughter, half a low, strangled sound in the back of his throat, and Grantaire is abruptly aware of how close they're standing and how neither of them is moving away, how Enjolras isn't looking at him but _is_ looking down at his own hands, is almost staring at them, with the strands of Christmas lights wrapped around them and Grantaire's hands closed in fists, holding them tight so the wires bite in just a little, so his wrists are pinned against one another, so he can't move except to tug against Grantaire's grip. How Enjolras's chest is still heaving, his breath coming fast and only getting faster, and Grantaire's heart is knocking against his breastbone.

Grantaire swallows and stops thinking it's so strange that Enjolras isn't looking at him, because all at once he finds he can't quite make himself look away from their hands, either. They're standing close and Enjolras isn't moving away. Enjolras's hands are bound and Enjolras isn't shaking it off, isn't pulling against it, isn't snapping at Grantaire to let him go. He's just standing there, staring at them, breathing quickly.

Grantaire swears beneath his breath again, softer. He should let go. He should drop the lights and step back and start cleaning and let them both pretend nothing out of the ordinary has happened. They don't talk about this, about how for all the years they've known each other they've always crashed against one another, but how the past few months they seem to have found themselves knocked into a different pattern instead, circling each other in a decaying orbit that's slowly pulling them closer together but not impacting, holding their tongues where previously they would have snapped and fought. Grantaire has always been transfixed by Enjolras, but this party isn't the first time he's found him looking back.

Grantaire tries to speak, can't, has to clear his throat and wet his lips and try again. "Enjolras." His voice is a rasp, scarcely audible. "Are we going to talk about this now?"

Enjolras flinches like he's pulling away from a blow and shakes his head, his brows drawing into a frown. His fingers flex, but he doesn't pull against the strings of lights.

Grantaire shuts his eyes briefly and tries not to feel disappointed. They don't talk about this. Why should now be any different? He lets out a slow, careful breath and says, "Okay. Okay," and lets go of the lights.

Enjolras makes a sound like he's been wounded, like the blow he flinched away from has landed and struck true. And when Grantaire opens his eyes and looks at him, Enjolras is leaning towards him instead of pulling away.

Grantaire breathes his name again. Enjolras lifts his gaze to Grantaire's and there's something dark and open there, something that keeps them both pinned even with the strings of lights gone loose between them. Enjolras could easily shake his hands free from them now.

Enjolras doesn't.

A few months ago, if Grantaire had seen Enjolras looking at him this way he'd have fled, or turned his words sharp-edged and caustic and pushed at Enjolras with them until he retreated instead, because Grantaire has always been drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Grantaire has always known that if he let himself get too close, if he let himself dare, he'd burn up. Better to bask half in Enjolras's light than to try for more and lose it all. He doesn't have a lot of self-preservation instincts, but this one he's clung to.

But a few months ago, they hadn't settled into this precarious orbit around one another, drawn in as if by gravity but somehow not crashing like they usually do. A few months ago, he hadn't found Enjolras looking back more often than not, every time Grantaire looked at him. A few months ago, he'd have dropped the lights and backed away and gotten to cleaning, and thrown in a few jokes for good measure, just to make sure Enjolras kept his distance.

Now, Grantaire breathes his name and Enjolras looks at him from so close and Grantaire wants to pull him in, he wants to crash, wants to go up in flames. He has to swallow twice before he can make himself say anything else, and when he does, it's the faintest whisper between them: "Do— do you want me to let go?"

Enjolras's gaze is direct and unwavering. His throat works, but he doesn't speak. He shakes his head. He leans in, just the slightest fraction of a degree.

Grantaire closes one hand on the lights, cinching them around Enjolras's wrists again, slides his other into Enjolras's hair, and dives into the fire.

The first touch of Enjolras's mouth goes through him like a shot of liquor, like jumping straight into icy waters. A jolt, a shock to the system, everything gone sharp and bright and alive. Grantaire loses his breath in the kiss. He tightens his fingers on the lights without meaning to and the sound Enjolras makes against his mouth is glorious, the most gorgeous thing Grantaire has ever heard.

It's Enjolras who takes the kiss deeper, who parts his lips and bites at the corner of Grantaire's mouth and shudders deliciously when Grantaire accepts the invitation and slips inside. He twists his hands within the strings of lights, but not like he's trying to free them. If anything, Grantaire thinks he's twisting them tighter around his wrists, and his breath shudders into Grantaire's mouth as he does.

_Jesus_ , Grantaire thinks, too breathless to voice it, but he thinks it fervently. His head swims like all his cider had been wine after all, and it's nearly all he can manage to free his hand from the glory that is Enjolras's hair and curve it around the back of his neck instead, his thumb braced against the line of Enjolras's jaw, and between that and the lights still firmly in his grip, to guide Enjolras backwards the two and a half steps between them and the couch.

Enjolras drops down onto it as soon as the cushion hits the backs of his calves. It breaks the kiss, but his gaze is intent upon Grantaire's, and it never wavers.

Grantaire's grip on the lights forces Enjolras's hands up between them in a position that almost looks supplicating, except that there's too much fire in Enjolras's gaze and it belies the impression. And Grantaire's chafing at the way that Enjolras's hands have been caught between them, keeping him from getting as close as he'd like, so he takes advantage of it and lifts Enjolras's arms up as he moves in, dragging the whole tangled mess of lights with it, so that Enjolras's wrists are pressed into the couch cushions just above his head and the lights are tumbling down around them both and it doesn't matter because Grantaire's kneeling astride Enjolras's lap, his calves pressed along Enjolras's thighs and finally, finally he can get as close as he wants.

The position stretches Enjolras a little, arches his back and emphasizes how long and lean he is, even with the oversized bulk of his horrible sweater doing its best to obscure the shape of him. Grantaire presses in, one hand still closed around Enjolras's wrists, lets his hips settle against Enjolras's and leans his chest in against Enjolras's just enough to sink him into the cushions a bit, and he kisses him, as long and deep and slow as he's always wanted to.

Enjolras makes soft little encouraging noises against his mouth and kisses him back. He tastes like hot chocolate, and a little of peppermint from the candy canes they all stirred it with, until they melted into their mugs. And underneath that, as Grantaire presses in close and prepares to lose himself in this, there's the faint bite of alcohol, like Enjolras had been drinking the same wine he'd scolded Grantaire for.

And Grantaire wants nothing more than this, the eager heat of Enjolras's mouth and the warmth of their bodies pressed in against each other, Enjolras bending like a bow beneath his hands and making the most incredible sounds. But he draws back from the kiss and tightens his hand on Enjolras's wrists when he tries to follow, and for once in his life, he does the smart thing.

He does it with his brow pressed against Enjolras's shoulder and their bodies still held close enough to pump heat into each other, and with at least three-quarters of his brain screaming at him that he's an idiot, but he does it all the same. He takes a deep breath, pretends to ignore the way that it shudders through his lungs, and gently asks, "How much did you drink tonight?"

Enjolras goes still beneath him, and Grantaire is the _biggest fucking idiot_. Why can't he just let himself have nice things? Every fucking time they start drifting closer to one another he finds a reason to sabotage it and—

"I'm not drunk," Enjolras says.

And that's not the question Grantaire asked him, so Grantaire pushes down every sign of reluctance and regret and makes himself seem sure as he lets go of Enjolras's wrists and sits up, sits back.

Enjolras makes a sharp, angry sound and doesn't free his wrists. He twists them up even further in the wires and moves faster than Grantaire can account for. He pushes up off of the couch cushions, bringing his chest in against Grantaire's, and he hooks his bound wrists behind Grantaire's neck so there's nowhere for him to go. Christmas lights are cascading around him like a veil and Enjolras is very close and very insistent and looking at him very, very directly.

"I am entirely sober," Enjolras says, sharp and insistent and with enough of an edge of irritation that Grantaire feels a little steadied. Enjolras irritated at him he knows what to do with. Enjolras irritated with him is how they've spent like ninety-five percent of their interactions, up until the last half hour. "I had one glass of wine, hours ago. I switched to the hot chocolate when—" He stops, then, and a little bit of a frown pinches between his brows. A little bit of extra color washes across his cheeks.

It doesn't take Grantaire more than a moment to realize what Enjolras means, what he's implying. Why it would make him abruptly look so chagrined. "When you thought I was going to flake on you," he says, and keeps his voice entirely devoid of inflection. They've got better things to do with themselves now than to get caught up again in whether Enjolras's assumption was fair, and whether Grantaire deserves it.

But even so, Grantaire's words just make Enjolras's frown deepen, make his expression go hard and determined. " _No._ It wasn't that. I thought—" He blows out a sharp breath and twists the fingers of his bound hands into Grantaire's hair. "Before that, I thought there might be a chance that we'd…end up like this." His cheeks are flame red now, brighter even than the kissing had made them, and Grantaire is enthralled. Not so much, though, that he misses what Enjolras said. What it _means_.

"Not like _this,_ I don't think," he says, freeing one hand to give a tug on a strand of lights, grinning. Teasing, because it's easier than facing the reality that this isn't some sort of product of Enjolras accidentally discovering that he likes being tied up a little and Grantaire just happening to be there, in the way and convenient and so terribly willing. This is Enjolras wanting him, incredibly, miraculously. This is Enjolras feeling the same gravitational pull between them and hoping in the same way that Grantaire has hoped these past months. These past years. 

Grantaire has to shut his eyes again and press his face in against Enjolras's shoulder as he struggles to accept the magnitude of it all.

"Not like this," Enjolras agrees, soft and warm and fond, and oh god, what is Grantaire supposed to _do_ with this knowledge?

"Are you sure you're not drunk?" he asks desperately, because that would explain so much. That would be so much easier to accept.

Enjolras looks exasperated again, but indulgently so, gentle with it. "I offered to drive you home," he reminds Grantaire, and that makes Grantaire sure of it better than any other assurance he might have given. Enjolras would never entertain the idea of getting behind the wheel of a car at anything less than full capacity.

"God," Grantaire says, choked, and takes Enjolras's face in his hands and throws himself back into kissing him with such enthusiasm that it bears Enjolras down into the couch cushions again.

Enjolras's lips curve against his and his fingers curl tighter in Grantaire's hair, holding on. Grantaire is kissing him and Enjolras is grinning into it like he's having the time of his life and this is absolutely, one-hundred-percent a Christmas miracle.

He doesn't know how long they spend like that, wrapped up in one another on the couch, making out like teenagers. Time ceased to matter ages ago. The only thing that matters is Enjolras's mouth against his, Enjolras's body arching up into his, the way he'll go from soft and open and wanting to sharp and demanding, nipping at Grantaire's lips with the edges of his teeth, and then yield all over again. He's going to Grantaire's head worse than wine, worse than the hardest liquor.

Grantaire's gasping when he finally pulls away, his heart thundering in his chest, his body warm all over. Enjolras makes a wordless, protesting sound and pulls at his hands, still bound and caught behind Grantaire's neck, to try to pull him back in. He's warm, too, his cheeks and throat flushed, his eyes gone so dark. And Grantaire is helpless to refuse him anything, so he lets himself be pulled back in, but turns his face to the side and leaves open-mouthed, insistent kisses along Enjolras's neck instead. The rapid flutter of Enjolras's pulse beneath his lips is almost enough to sidetrack him entirely. Almost.

Grantaire lingers there for a few moments, kissing and sucking at Enjolras's throat and trying not to think about the fact that he's probably leaving marks, and that Enjolras doesn't seem to have a problem with that. Enjolras arches his head back and hums a low, happy note, and that's enough to make Grantaire recall his purpose, to leave him with one last kiss and then draw back as far as Enjolras will allow him — which isn't much, is almost nothing at all, his breath gusts over Enjolras's skin as he speaks and Enjolras shudders against him with each syllable — and ask, "What do you want? Christ, _anything_ , just say it and it's yours—"

Enjolras blinks at him, his eyes focusing slowly on his face. His chest rises and falls sharply twice before he runs his tongue over his lips and nearly loses the opportunity to say anything at all because _god_ , Grantaire wants to kiss him again, Grantaire never wants to be not kissing him.

"I'm not exactly in a position to be making demands," he says, and tugs at his hands behind Grantaire's neck, as though Grantaire could possibly forget. "I think the question is, what do _you_ want?"

" _Shit_ ," Grantaire breathes and holds onto him just a little bit harder. It's a Christmas miracle but it's also the worst prank ever because he's spent years, literally years wanting to do all sorts of wickedly delicious things to and with Enjolras and the fact that he can't do them all now, that he has to _choose_ , is straight-up cruelty.

But Enjolras wants this, wants his hands tied and maybe pinned, wants Grantaire holding him down, and Grantaire can work with that. It's easier to think of it as deciding _how_ he wants to give Enjolras what he wants.

He starts by reaching one hand up to the tangle of lights and grabbing onto them, using them to pull Enjolras's hands back over his head. And that's definitely the right call because it makes Enjolras's eyes go even darker, makes his chest rise and fall swiftly. Enjolras's lips part like he's wanting a kiss and it takes every scrap of will power Grantaire has not to sink into that invitation and never come up for air. But he holds himself back and returns to kissing Enjolras's throat, instead. And this time, he works his way down and keeps going, until his lips are pressed to Enjolras's collarbone just above the ribbed neckline of that incredibly, ridiculously terrible sweater. 

"This may actually be the ugliest thing I've ever seen," he says as he works the first pine tree button free and bares an inch of Enjolras's chest. "I've been wanting to tear it off of you all night."

Enjolras laughs, low and warm and wanting. "I know. It's the worst. I love it."

Grantaire draws back and stares down at him. "That hurts," he says. "In my _soul_."

Enjolras is grinning up at him, but only for a moment, and then the laughter fades to just heat, glowing warm and bright. "So tear it off me."

Grantaire spends a moment kissing Enjolras's chest, the little triangle of skin that's been revealed, to cover up the way hearing Enjolras speak those words makes his hands shake, makes his breath shudder. Enjolras hums happy noises as he does so, and in a moment, when Grantaire's mastered himself enough that he's not going to embarrass himself completely just because Enjolras asked him to _tear his clothes off_ , Grantaire slides his hand down to the next button on the sweater.

He doesn't tear it off of him, but he moves steadily, methodically, until every button's come free and he can push the sides of the sweater of the sweater open and finally get at all that skin.

He sits back at first, though, his weight on Enjolras's thighs, so that he can slide a hand along Enjolras's chest and take in the sight of him, half-bared to Grantaire and letting him look, letting him touch. The rise and fall of his chest is more pronounced now, without the sweater in the way, and Grantaire can see that the flush coloring his cheeks and throat spreads all the way down across his chest. He leans in and kisses across it, feeling the prickling heat of Enjolras's skin. When he slides a hand up Enjolras's ribs and thumbs across a nipple, Enjolras's breath catches, and his heart races, just beneath the press of Grantaire's lips.

"God, I want to do everything to you," Grantaire breathes, working his kisses down to Enjolras's other nipple.

It nearly does his head in when Enjolras gulps for air and says, "Please." It _absolutely_ does his head in when Enjolras accompanies the plea by lifting his hips off the couch, pressing up against Grantaire's. Grantaire has to muffle his gasp against Enjolras's skin, and he pulls Enjolras's nipple into his mouth and works at it to give himself something to focus on other than how he's about five seconds away from going off like a goddamn teenager at the incredible, miraculous feel of Enjolras rutting up against him.

Grantaire's used to things between them being imbalanced, he's used to wanting Enjolras more than Enjolras could ever possibly want him, used to loving him with no hope or expectation of his feelings ever being requited. He knows how to work with that. But _this,_ Enjolras beneath him, rising up to his touch and making sharp, hungry noises for more, Enjolras pushing into his hands or against his mouth or his hips like he somehow wants more… it's the greatest gift that Grantaire would have never dared ask for. And there is nothing, _nothing_ that Grantaire could refuse him.

He fits his hands to Enjolras's waist and holds him still, as much as he can, as he kisses along the trail of pale hair that leads him from Enjolras's chest down across his stomach. Enjolras's muscles tighten beneath Grantaire's mouth, and he sucks in a sharp breath of air and then holds it, holds it, while Grantaire tugs at the fly of his pants with fingers that suddenly seem fumbling and useless.

When Grantaire finally wrestles the button open and the zipper down and slips his hand past the elastic waist of Enjolras's underwear to find him hot and hard and straining, Enjolras lets out his breath all at once, a shuddering rush like he's just as overwhelmed and humbled to have Grantaire's hand on his dick as Grantaire is to be allowed to have it there.

Grantaire doesn't know how he is ever going to get used to the idea that Enjolras wants him just as fiercely as he wants Enjolras. But he's going to try. Enjolras deserves that, at the very least.

He slides back enough that he can push Enjolras's pants and underwear down together, and Enjolras helps, lifting off the couch and twisting his hips until his pants are around his thighs and the proof of how much he wants Grantaire is rising up between them, the scarlet flush striped by Grantaire's brown fingers as he grips him, as he strokes him.

He's the most beautiful thing Grantaire has ever seen, and the terrible sweater only somehow makes him more so, highlighting his radiance instead of dimming it. Grantaire wants to blow him so badly it hurts, wants to worship him with his mouth until neither of them can take it another moment longer. But there's one thing he wants even more than that.

He lets go of Enjolras, just long enough to spit into his palm, and then he kisses a direct path up Enjolras's chest so that he's stretched out over him again, so that he can drop kisses against his mouth and witness the transformation across his face as he takes Enjolras's dick into his hand again and begins to stroke him.

His whole face is flushed now, and his lips are bitten red. There's a fine dusting of freckles across the bridge of Enjolras's nose that Grantaire has never noticed before, but they stand out now against his blush. Grantaire wants to kiss every single one of them.

Later. He'll do that later, because right now the sight of Enjolras's face as Grantaire's hand moves over him is the most incredible thing he's ever seen. Little creases form across his brow when Grantaire's thumb strokes against a particularly sensitive place, and when Grantaire returns to it and caresses it more deliberately, his chest heaves and his lips part, stretching around a wordless groan. When he blinks his eyes open, he meets Grantaire's gaze and he's so close, he's the only thing Grantaire sees. His eyes are so dark, nothing left but a sliver of color around the pupil. Grantaire's barely started and he looks wrecked. 

"Next time," Grantaire says, leaving kisses in between each word, "next time, I want you in my mouth," and silently marvels that he's not somehow struck down for the audacity of daring to presume.

The corners of Enjolras's eyes crinkle with a smile. "Next time, I want you in me," he says, and Grantaire loses his breath all at once.

"We can do that," he manages to choke out, his fingers spasming tighter around Enjolras and making him gasp. "We can definitely do that. _Christ_."

Enjolras is like a live wire beneath him, shuddering with every stroke of Grantaire's fist over him. He tugs at his wrists and bites off moans, though there's nothing keeping them bound except the string of light haphazardly wrapped around them, and there's nothing keeping them stretched above his head at all, except his own disinclination to move them. But still, he pulls against them in a pantomime of struggle.

Grantaire shifts his weight above Enjolras until he's got himself balanced enough that he can move the hand he had braced against the couch's back beside Enjolras and reach up with it. He grabs both of Enjolras's wrists in his hand and squeezes, just a little, as he leans in just enough to press them down into the couch cushions. 

Enjolras gasps for air like he's drowning, his eyes gone huge and round. He tugs just a little at Grantaire's grip, and when Grantaire bites at the shell of his ear and growls, "Stop that," all the fight goes out of him, and Enjolras smiles like he's just been given the very best Christmas present ever.

Never in Grantaire's wildest dreamings would he have ever imagined that Enjolras might react like this to being held down, being restrained, having commands snapped at him. If anything Grantaire would have guessed that he'd react with fire, a conflagration of rage and indignation. Not _this_ , Enjolras melting under it like a cat beneath a gentle, stroking hand.

They are going to have _so much fun_ exploring this new, unexpected side of Enjolras. Grantaire doesn't even feel like he's somehow overstepping his bounds for thinking it, because Enjolras said it too. Enjolras said _next time_ , like there wasn't even any doubt.

Grantaire pulls Enjolras's hands just a little higher, forcing him into just a little bit of a stretch. Enjolras makes choked, wordless, _incredible_ noises and pushes up into Grantaire's fist. His lips move, shaping words that Grantaire can't hear past the thunder of his own pulse. He bites at Enjolras again — the only real recourse left to him, with one hand holding his wrists and the other still desperately trying to bring him off — but gentles it this time, scrapes his teeth along Enjolras's throat and thrills at the long, glorious shudder that goes through him. "What was that?"

Enjolras sucks air into his lungs, then lets it out on a groan and has to try a second time. "Please," he says, still hushed but at least loud enough for Grantaire to make out this time, and thank fuck for that, because Grantaire's never seen anything prettier than Enjolras, debauched and stretched out beneath him and asking for more so nicely. " _Please_."

They haven't talked about this, and it leaves Grantaire feeling a little bit at sea. If they'd done this properly, he'd know what Enjolras wanted and what Enjolras liked best, instead of having to fumble along and hope they discovered it accidentally. There are people, he knows, who enjoy being strung along on the edge of release, held there panting and wanting. Is Enjolras hinting that that's what he wants now, by asking for permission? Grantaire doesn't think he seems the sort to enjoy being denied, but then, he wouldn't have guessed that Enjolras was the sort to like being tied up and held down, either. And yet here he is, enjoying it, intensely.

If they'd talked about this beforehand, Grantaire would have told Enjolras that there isn't a single atom in him that could possibly deny Enjolras anything he wants. If what Enjolras wants is to beg and be denied… Well. They can figure that out later. When Enjolras isn't stretched out beneath him and pleading too prettily to be refused.

Grantaire turns the bite at Enjolras's throat into a sucking kiss, leaves a bruise far too high up for any scarf or turtleneck to cover, and then draws back enough to ask, "Do you want to come?"

Enjolras nods frantically and Grantaire thinks maybe he made the right call after all. He leans up and kisses Enjolras at the same time as he tightens his grip for the next stroke, and swallows the choked sound that he makes. "Good," Grantaire says. "Look at me. I want to see."

Enjolras opens his eyes and locks his gaze onto Grantaire's. There's need written all over his face, and desperation clear in his eyes. Grantaire slides the hand on his wrists up until he's pressed palm-to-palm with one of Enjolras's hands, and he can thread their fingers together and hold onto him, even as he holds him down. And he watches, from so close that the intimacy he's allowed is staggering, as Enjolras hurtles towards the edge.

When he comes, it's with a strangled gasp and his eyes locked onto Grantaire's, gone wide and shocked. His fingers spasm around Grantaire's hand, holding onto him like he's the only thing keeping him anchored as his hips jerk in his grasp. He comes all over Grantaire's hand and his own stomach, then abruptly goes slack and sinks down into the couch cushions. His eyes are shut, his face a picture of replete joy. Grantaire wants to paint him like this, wants to study every line and shadow until he's committed it to memory, made indelible.

Grantaire leans down and lays a soft kiss on Enjolras's slack mouth. "Hey," he murmurs. "I still want to see."

It takes Enjolras a moment to blink his eyes open, and a moment longer than that to focus on Grantaire's face. He's soft and sated and happy and looking at Grantaire like he's the source of all those things, and asking for this might have been a mistake because Grantaire doesn't know how to handle it at all.

"Hey," Enjolras says back to him, smiling, his voice soft and a little hoarse, and Grantaire is so, so done for.

Grantaire swallows down the emotions threatening to rise up in his throat and choke him and sits back, freeing Enjolras from his weight. He looks down at the mess he's made of his hand, of Enjolras's stomach. "I should-- Do you have washcloths in the bathroom? I'll clean us up."

"Grantaire," Enjolras says gently, and there's censure in his voice but it's not the sort that Grantaire is used to from him. He's used to anger and hard edges and sharp words, but there's nothing sharp-edged about Enjolras at all right now, and he mostly sounds sad and a little disappointed. He brings his hands down from overhead and stretches out his shoulders with a small grimace. "Don't be ridiculous. Stand up for a minute?"

Grantaire slides back and gets to his feet, feeling all at once awkward with his hand still a mess and nothing nearby to wipe it off on. Before he can take another step back and turn to go find something to wash them both off with, Enjolras slides up to the edge of the couch, and then off it and onto his knees on the floor.

Grantaire blinks down at him and for a stunned, stupid moment can only think, _He still hasn't pulled his hands out of those lights._ And then Enjolras shuffles forward and presses his face in against Grantaire's stomach, nuzzles there against the hem of Grantaire's sweater and lifts his hands to pull at the button on his trousers, and Grantaire loses all thoughts in a white-hot rush of static.

It's not that at some point he stopped and thought, _Enjolras is definitely not going to want to reciprocate._ It's just that he didn't think about it at all. Yes, he's been hard, since about five seconds after Enjolras got all glassy-eyed over unexpectedly having his hands bound, but his own need has been inconsequential in the face of Enjolras telling him he wants him, telling him he'd hoped during the party that they might find themselves like this, flushed and gasping and wrecked because of Grantaire's hand on him, and every neuron in Grantaire's brain has been focused entirely on making sure that Enjolras got off, making sure this was good for him. Grantaire's own hard-on has been... not even secondary. Tertiary. Quaternary, maybe. Completely irrelevant to what he's actually wanted, which was, simply and wholly, to make Enjolras feel good.

And so he never thought about what might happen, once Enjolras had had his orgasm and Grantaire hadn't yet had one of his own. He certainly hadn't imagined this, Enjolras on his knees and awkwardly opening his pants with his bound hands, rubbing his cheek against Grantaire's stomach like even now he can't get close enough. He _couldn't_ have imagined it, couldn't have possibly known how Enjolras would look up at him through hooded eyes, how he'd pull Grantaire's pants and boxers down around his knees and stare at his dick like it's even half as gorgeous as Enjolras's own was. How he'd lean in and swallow Grantaire down and moan like Grantaire's the best thing he's ever tasted, and how his hair would be as soft as down where it fell forward and brushed against Grantaire’s stomach and his thighs.

Enjolras's mouth is hot on him, eager, and Grantaire reaches for him instinctively before realizing halfway through the gesture that his hand is still an absolute disaster. He frowns down at it, but before he can figure out what to do about it, Enjolras pulls off of him and tips his face up and says, "I'm going to drag you into the shower after this, anyway. Don't worry about it."

Grantaire gapes down at him, certain that he must have heard him wrong, or that Enjolras's mouth is somehow so amazing that he's given him an aneurysm five seconds into his blow job.

It's not the most unbelievable theory in the world. Enjolras's mouth is _incredible_. And it's a far cry more credible than the idea that Enjolras might be inviting him to—

Enjolras's expression turns every so slightly exasperated. "I want your hands on me, R," he says and then leans in like the conversation's done and closes his lips around the head of Grantaire's dick.

His tongue is doing wicked, impossible, amazing things and R's head is reeling with it even as he scrambles to hold on to enough sense to figure out what to do, because what he _wants_ is to slide his hand into Enjolras's hair and hold onto him, and he doesn't care if Enjolras is actually encouraging him to do it, there is no way on God's green earth that Grantaire is going to make a mess of Enjolras's hair like that. It would be sacrilege.

That sweater's always an option, and Grantaire would feel absolutely no guilt whatsoever about ruining it, except that Enjolras said he loved it. He could—

Enjolras makes a sharp, irritated noise and grabs onto a fistful of Grantaire's jeans with his bound hands, jerking him forward so he can swallow him down deep, so deep, Grantaire tips his head back and breathes obscenities up at the ceiling as he feels himself grazing against the back of Enjolras's throat, and fuck it, just fuck it, he _has_ to—

He scrubs his hand clean on his own sweater and to hell with the dry cleaning bill, and then reaches for Enjolras and pushes the fingers of both hands deep into his hair. And Enjolras sighs around him like he's content, like that's what he needed to _be_ content, which is going to do Grantaire's head in something fierce later, when he can actually form a coherent thought again.

Enjolras is incredible with his mouth, hot and hungry, taking him in until his lips are pressed to the base of him and his tongue moves slick and obscene against the underside of his dick, then pulling back to gasp in air like he's drowning before he dives in all over again.

Once, when Enjolras comes up for air, instead of swallowing Grantaire back down immediately, he presses Grantaire's dick up against his stomach and drags his tongue over him with long licks. His chest is heaving, and Grantaire loosens one hand in his hair enough to graze a thumb against his cheekbone. Enjolras shuts his eyes and pushes into the caress like a cat, and breathes against his skin, "God, you're incredible. You're the best thing I've ever tasted."

Grantaire chokes, and mutters an oath as heat pulses through him and a bead of precome wells up and begins to drip down his cock, and Enjolras laps it up. " _Christ,_ you can't— You can't _say_ things like that, you're going to make me—"

Enjolras's whole face is alight with satisfaction. "I'm _trying_ to make you," he says, and then takes him deep again and there's nothing Grantaire can do but tighten his fingers in Enjolras's hair and try to last beneath the onslaught on his mouth.

He tries squeezing his eyes shut, tries to breathe careful and even — and that's a failure from the start because he's a gasping, shuddering mess and there's absolutely no pretending otherwise, not with Enjolras's lips sliding along his shaft like a goddamned miracle — and when that doesn't help at all, he tries opening his eyes and looking down at Enjolras on his knees before him. And that's _worse_ , God, but it's also better. Enjolras's hair is going a darker shade of gold at the temples, damp with sweat, and his lips are red where they're closed around Grantaire's dick, and there's a flush burning bright across his cheeks, and he keeps pulling at his bound wrists like he wants to take Grantaire in his hand and has forgotten about the lights, and when he's reminded, he makes little strangled, wanting sounds in the back of his throat that should be fucking illegal and sucks Grantaire even more determinedly, like he's going to make up for not being able to use his hands by being absolutely devastating with his mouth. And Grantaire's going to come, and thats a goddamned tragedy. Enjolras is radiant like this and Grantaire wants to be able to look at him forever, wants to always feel this way, but he can't look at Enjolras like that, everything in him shining with determination and a single-minded focus with Grantaire at its center, and _not_ feel control slipping wildly out of his grasp. 

His hands are too tight in Enjolras's hair, he _has_ to be pulling, but Enjolras doesn't shake him off or snap at him to be gentle or anything else of the sort. He just keeps working magic with his mouth, and when Grantaire bites back a strangled, desperate sound and tries to keep from fucking into Enjolras's mouth, Enjolras pulls off of him with an obscene noise. "Come on, R, come _on,_ " he gasps, and swallows him down again, and Grantaire loses the battle on every front at once.

His hands tighten convulsively around the fistfuls of hair in his grasp, and his hips jerk, pushing into Enjolras's mouth, and Enjolras just hums a noise and lets him, his eyes shut and his expression blissful as Grantaire goes hurtling right over the edge and comes down his throat.

For several long, glorious, too-brief moments, the world is lost beneath the roaring in Grantaire's ears and the glow of pleasure across his skin, every nerve gone hypersensitive and exquisite. But when Enjolras eventually pulls off of him with a gasp, Grantaire forces his eyes open, forces himself back to reality, because at the moment, reality is fucking _incredible_ and he refuses to miss a single second.

Enjolras is still on his knees, stretching his jaw like it's been overworked and blinking his eyes open, blinking up at Grantaire. And when he sees Grantaire looking back, he smiles, as slow and brilliant as a sunrise. He catches at the fabric of Grantaire's pants with his fingers and tugs, says, "Get down here. You're too far away," and Grantaire sinks to his knees.

Enjolras loops his arms around Grantaire's neck as soon as he does, and then just presses in against him, skin to skin, his face against the hollow of Grantaire's throat.

Grantaire lets out a careful breath and eases his arms around Enjolras's back, holding onto him in return. The moment suddenly feels precious and delicate, the first fragile tendrils of something bridging the space that's existed between them all these years. Grantaire holds onto him and breathes in the scent of his hair and presses his lips to the crown of Enjolras's head, and feels infinitely grateful to have had even this much. A Christmas miracle, indeed, to have Enjolras in his arms like this, clutching at him, wanting this closeness.

After a few moments have passed and his knees are starting to hurt a little and Enjolras seems like he might be happy just to hold onto him until New Year's, Grantaire slips one hand up into Enjolras's hair and brushes his fingers through it, and with the other tugs at the tangle of lights hanging over his shoulder and asks, "Ready to be free of these yet?"

Enjolras takes two long, careful breaths before he pulls the circle of his arms over Grantaire's head and sits back on his haunches and says, "Yes." His clothes are still half-undone, more of him bared than not, and Grantaire thinks distantly that he must be cold, so he tugs the edges of his sweater over his shoulders before he slides his hands down Enjolras's arms, to where the lights have wrapped themselves into a proper knot around his wrists.

"Hold still," Grantaire warns him, and starts plucking at the strands. "Tell me if I hurt you."

"You're not going to hurt me," Enjolras says, a little quieter than Grantaire might have expected from him, but steady and absolutely sure.

Grantaire smiles at him and leans forward to kiss his brow, impossibly fond, then slots his knees between Enjolras's so he can come in close and work on the tangled strands without forcing Enjolras to hold his arms out at an uncomfortable angle.

The lights are a nightmare, even more than tangled Christmas lights normally are, because Enjolras's wrists are trapped in the middle and, for all Enjolras's confidence, Grantaire is very careful to make sure he doesn't pinch Enjolras's skin or accidentally cinch the wires tighter as he tries to loosen the knots.

It takes entirely too long to sort it all out, but Enjolras is close and warm and breathing steadily through it and so Grantaire somehow never finds himself filled with the frustrated rage that always seems to come hand in hand with trying to untangle Christmas lights. And when the strands finally come loose enough that Enjolras can shake them off and his hands are free at last, the first thing he does is slide his fingers into Grantaire's hair and pull him in to press their brows together and breathe warmly into the space between them.

Grantaire's smile spreads, probably dances on the edge of a beam, but fuck it. "Wow," he says quietly, so soft and so happy, and Enjolras glances up to him and meets his gaze from so close that he's the only thing Grantaire can see. "So, that was one of the more incredible experiences of my life."

Enjolras laughs at him, soft, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He tips his head enough to just place a quick kiss on Grantaire's lips, and then slides back. "Shower. Come on. We are both too gross to get in bed right now."

Grantaire gets to his feet, floating a little bit at the suggestion that Enjolras wants him to stay the night, that he's going to get to sleep beside Enjolras and wake beside him and spend the morning doing stupidly domestic things like having breakfast and brewing coffee. He reaches a hand to help Enjolras to his, and then keeps hold of Enjolras's hand and turns it over, frowning at the lines and dents on his wrist from where the lights had been pressed into the skin.

"I'm fine," Enjolras says softly.

Grantaire makes a low sound and lifts Enjolras's hands to press kisses to the marks. And Enjolras's expression goes warm and indulgent, and he lets him.

They help one another shed their clothes on the way to the shower, Grantaire bracing Enjolras's weight while he steps out of his pants, Enjolras doing the same for him while he kicks off his jeans, a brush of Grantaire's palms sliding Enjolras's sweater to a heap on the floor, Enjolras's soft laughter enveloping him as he wrestles his own sweater off and gets momentarily stuck with his arms caught overhead and his hair tangled around a button.

And then they're in the shower, with the hot water spraying down around them, and Grantaire finds himself with Enjolras in his arms and Enjolras's arms wrapped around his back, like it's easy, like it's natural, like it's where they belong. He presses his face into the side of Enjolras's throat and breathes there, and marvels at how the gravity that's been pulling them towards each other for years has finally won, but they've somehow managed to come together like this, wet skin pressed to wet skin, holding each other tight, without the crash that always seemed inevitable.

Eventually water drips from Enjolras's hair down into his eyes, and he pulls back to sputter and push it out of his face, and then it's easier for them to let each other go, to move around the shower stall, grabbing up bottles that are clustered around their feet.

Grantaire fills his hands with shampoo that smells sharply and intimately like Enjolras, and then pushes it through Enjolras's hair and takes advantage of the excuse to run his fingers through Enjolras's curls, over and over again, as much as he's always wanted to. And Enjolras lets him, leaning in against him a little, his eyes closed against the spray of the water and a drip of soap running down his forehead, and there's a faint little smile flirting with the edges of his mouth that gives Grantaire permission to hope that maybe he's just as deliriously content to be here with him like this as Grantaire is.

When he's finished, he guides Enjolras back beneath the spray of the shower, tips his head back and combs his fingers through Enjolras's hair to make sure all the soap rinses out, and then does it all over again with conditioner. And when he's done with that, Enjolras blinks his eyes open and looks at Grantaire, and his eyes have gone hazy through the steam rising up between them, and for a moment Grantaire can't even breathe. 

"You, too," he says, and makes to stoop down and reach for the bottles again.

Grantaire catches him by the shoulders and straightens him up, instead. "That stuff looks pricey," he says. "It'd just be wasted on me. I can use my cheap stuff when I get home."

It just makes a little furrow pinch between Enjolras's brows. "It's not a waste. And it's good for curls." He reaches up to tug at one of Grantaire's, heavy with water and hanging lower in his face than he's used to. "You should try it."

"Maybe later," Grantaire relents. "For now, I want a better look at your wrists."

Enjolras sighs, put-upon. "My wrists are _fine_ , Grantaire." But he doesn't protest beyond that when Grantaire turns off the water and bundles Enjolras up in one of his oversized towels, and maneuvers him out of the shower. Grantaire shuts the lid of the toilet and piles a second towel on it, so Enjolras won't have to endure the cold plastic, and then guides Enjolras down until he's sitting on it. 

Enjolras allows most of it, if with a slightly exasperated expression, but when Grantaire goes down to a knee before him, he makes a quiet, intrigued sound and pushes the fingers of one hand into Grantaire's hair.

Grantaire smiles up at him, and turns his head to press a kiss to the heel of his hand, and then gently draws it out of his hair and turns it over so he can look at his wrist.

Most of the dents that had been pressed into the skin have disappeared over the course of their shower, which is a relief to see. But there's a spot at the edge of his wrist, right above the bone, that's been abraded enough to turn red and a little angry. He must make a sound at it, too, because Enjolras looks down at the same place he is and abruptly gets the guiltiest expression Grantaire has ever seen on him. If he didn't have more pressing matters at hand, Grantaire would be fascinated by it. "It'll be fine, watch, by tomorrow you won't even be able to see--"

"Do you have any ointment?"

"I didn't exactly prepare for this to happen."

"Lotion, then." Grantaire bends over his hands and presses his lips gently to the back of his wrist, careful of where the skin is flushed and likely to be painful. "Enjolras. Let me take care of you."

Enjolras blinks at him rapidly, his eyes gone very big and very round, and his lips part as he releases an unsteady breath. His fingers curl just a little where Grantaire has his wrapped through them, holding onto him. "Yeah, okay," he says, faint, like the idea of being taken care of is foreign enough to leave him breathless, and Grantaire is abruptly angry at every person in his life who's left him unused to being cared for. He's angry at himself, because they've been friends for years, haven't they? And Grantaire has never thought to, before now. "There's hand lotion in the medicine cabinet."

Grantaire rises to his feet and presses a kiss to the crown of Enjolras's head, where the very outer layer of his hair is beginning to dry and curl up into a fine halo around him, before he has to let go of Enjolras's hand and step away, to open the medicine cabinet and rifle through the toothbrushes and mangled, half-empty tubes of toothpaste and other bottles of who-knows-what that are inside.

He turns up a small tube of lotion with a fancy, floral label on it, and when he twists the cap open and sniffs it, it smells of lemongrass and ginger. He looks at Enjolras and holds it up so he can see it. "This the one?" It's not what Grantaire would have expected of him, but it's half empty, so Enjolras must like it well enough.

Enjolras nods. "It was a gift from Cosette."

That makes a lot more sense. Grantaire can't quite picture Enjolras taking the time to seek out a fancy boutique store and buy himself a fancy tube of probably-overpriced lotion. He's never been the sort to prioritize creature comforts for himself that way, though Grantaire wouldn't have bat an eye to learn that he'd gone to the effort of doing so for one of his friends.

Grantaire abruptly wants to shower him in fancy lotions and soaps, all the indulgent things that Enjolras wouldn't ever treat himself to. He pushes the instinct aside for later and goes down to his knees in front of him again, so he can take Enjolras's hand in his and squeeze a drop of lotion onto his wrist and begin to carefully work it into his skin. "Let me know if I hurt you."

Enjolras has that half-stunned look on his face again, and his gaze is very focused on where Grantaire's fingers are pressing and kneading into the back of his hand and up his forearm. "You aren't."

Grantaire smiles. "Good. Let me know if that changes."

"You won't."

He laughs quietly. "Enjolras—"

" _Fine._ I will."

"Good," Grantaire says again, and bends to kiss a little higher up on his forearm, where he's not going to taste like lotion, as he rubs firm circles into the heel of Enjolras's hand, and Enjolras makes a soft, approving sound.

He moves onto the other hand after a few minutes of that, when it starts to feel more like he's indulging himself than he is Enjolras. And when he's finished, the marks on his wrists don't really look any less inflamed, but Enjolras's expression has gone soft and open and his gaze tracks every movement that Grantaire makes, and when he sits back on his heels Enjolras leans a little bit after him, before he catches himself and looks startled, like he hadn't even meant to.

"All right," Grantaire says, lacing his fingers through Enjolras's and holding onto his hands. "That'll do for now, I think. Let's go to bed."

It feels a little bit like a miracle just to even suggest something like that, and a lot like one that Enjolras's response is pure, simple happiness and to nod eagerly. Grantaire feels like he's somehow managed to pull a fast one on the universe, that he's being allowed this, that any of this at all has happened but especially this part, this quiet, easy intimacy that somehow feels at once steady and solid and also as delicate as spun sugar. It feels like it could fall apart if he even dares to examine it too thoroughly.

But it's another miracle that it doesn't, that Enjolras squeezes his fingers around Grantaire's, holding onto him in return, and gets to his feet and guides him out of the bathroom and down the hall, through the apartment and into his bedroom like it's natural. Like he belongs there.

Enjolras's bed is pushed up against the wall, and there's a half-filled glass of water and a lamp and a book on the nightstand at it's side, so Grantaire climbs into the bed first, and slides across to the far side so that Enjolras can have what is clearly his side of the bed. And Enjolras climbs in after him, pulled by their hands that are still linked, and turns toward him and pushes the pillow into the middle of the bed and says, "We're going to have to share. I'm not exactly prepared for company."

And Grantaire laughs, a little wildly, because _how is he being allowed this?_ And beams at Enjolras and says, "I'm sure we'll manage." And Enjolras smiles back at him, the corners of his eyes all crinkled up and happy.

There's an awkward moment while they try to figure out a way to settle in that they can both lie their heads on the too-narrow pillow, without one or the other of them getting a crick in their necks. And then Enjolras, with an air of solemnity that's belied by the twinkle of laughter in his eyes, says, "Well, I'm playing host, it's only right that I should sacrifice so that my guest can be comfortable," and pushes and prods at Grantaire until he's got his head on the pillow and one arm stretched out, and Enjolras slides right into that space he's made and presses in against Grantaire's side, tangles his legs in with his and wraps an arm around his waist and pillows his head on Grantaire's chest, and Grantaire curls the arm around his back and holds him there and quietly thinks to himself that he might die, he's so happy.

"Good?" Enjolras asks, the point of his jaw digging into Grantaire's chest as he speaks.

"Never better," Grantaire answers, and means it thoroughly, and Enjolras hums a little happy noise and nestles himself in tighter against him, and Grantaire holds onto him until they've both drifted off to sleep.


End file.
